


Comfy

by storyranger



Series: The Prince and The Drifter [1]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Aftermath of Shenanigans, Drew vomits sorry, F/M, Feelings Realization, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Rangerverse but stands alone, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Unrequited Crush, for now at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 23:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyranger/pseuds/storyranger
Summary: It occurs to him, suddenly, that if this was anyone else, they’d have fucked by now. Injured ribs be damned. That doesn’t mean he wants to fuckMustafa Ali, just he’s never had someone laying this close to him and itnotbe sexual. He’s normally a lot more… prickly.In the wake of one of Mustafa's (possibly disastrous) attempts to save the world, Elias finds himself questioning his aversion to comfort.





	Comfy

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set during/after [**Mustafa Ali Saves the World**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13692186), and will make a lot more sense if you read that first!  
>  For this fic we are ignoring the existence of Mustafa’s wife. (Who am I kidding, we ignore spousal existences every fic.)

Now that Elias is on the main roster, he can afford rental cars. But Elias’s mama didn’t raise a fool. Elias only rents when it can’t be avoided, like when he absolutely has to be on time to a pay-per-view. House shows, hell, most Raw tapings he can afford to be late. He may have a core group of faithful fans, but he’s nowhere near important enough that any of the high-ups give a damn if he’s punctual.

Elias is a curmudgeon, though thankfully a self-aware one. But he’s also, through years of experience and no small amount of natural talent, the perfect travel companion. His only possessions of value are his guitar and his noise-cancelling headphones, so he never cares if you’re rough with his meagre amount of luggage. You can play whatever music you like, and talk as much as you want; if he needs to zone out, his headphones have him covered. He has stories if you need to stay awake, a song if you need to fall asleep, and he always chips in for gas and buys you the beverage of your choice. Just never, ever touch his guitar, and you’ll have the most pleasant ride of your life.

When Ali and Gulak approached him tonight in the hallway after his match, though, they weren’t looking for a travel companion. They were looking for a guitarist. What possessed him to agree to be involved in their convoluted scheme, he may never know. _Bayley. It was Bayley_. What mattered was he had, and it led to Gulak making of fool a himself in front of his lover before being chased off by hotel security and culminated in Gulak trying to go shot for shot with Elias in a seedy dive bar and failing utterly.

Normally Elias has a “not my circus, not my monkeys” attitude towards drunks, but tonight’s ended up far from normal. Perhaps because he knows how frustrating it can be to wrangle dead weight approximately the same height and weight as yourself, maybe because he didn’t entirely trust the strictly straight-edge Muslim to be prepared to handle things, either way here he was, dutifully laying out water and painkillers as Ali watches over the puking wretch in the bathroom.

Elias isn’t big on vomiting. He can deal with the sound, but watching it turns his stomach a little too much for comfort. It’s why he’s out here, drunk proofing the path from bed to toilet while Mustafa does the grunt work.

“I know the signs of alcohol poisoning, Elias. Who do you think DD’s for the cruiserweights?” he’d pointed out, and Elias had to admit that was a fair point.

“I thought you weren’t that friendly with each other.”

“We weren’t. When Amore go here, though, well… that changed things. At least until Adrian left.” Elias notes the cold, impersonal way Ali uses the disgraced New Jersey loudmouth’s last name as opposed to the former King of the Cruiserweight’s first. He’s not sure he’s ever heard _anyone_ use Neville’s first name since the Englishman moved up from NXT.

Why he hadn’t bounced once he was sure of Ali’s competency, he’d never know. But he hadn’t, and now he’d feel guilty abandoning the other man halfway through the job. Under the guise of keeping himself busy, he starts tidying the few belongings left in the room that aren’t already organized with Gulak’s trade-mark military precision. Really, it’s because he wants to give Gulak as much of a fighting chance as he can at a good impression if Neese does pay a visit tomorrow.

Elias is a curmudgeon; he’s not a heartless brute.

Eventually the retching subsides and he hears the toilet flush. Ali’s gentle murmurs become audible as the tap runs, coaxing Gulak to rinse his mouth. Elias figures things are probably safe for him now, and enters the comically tiny bathroom in time to help drag Gulak over to his bed and get him safely bundled in. Ali insists on the recovery position, and Elias agrees with him in principle but still grumbles over the extra effort. Ali gives Elias’s efforts a once over, flashes a tiny smile his way.

“Great work, Elias. I think we’re done here.”

“Good,” Elias grunts, heading for the door. Ali follows, giving one last look back at their sleeping charge before carefully shutting the door and checking the lock. He’s uncharacteristically quiet in the elevator, and a brief glance over reveals the fatigue in his eyes and the worried set of his jaw.

It’s not until they’re back at the station wagon, separating out their gear from the jumble the trunk has transformed it into, that he finally speaks again.

“Thanks. For helping with that. You really didn’t have to.”

Elias isn’t quite sure how to respond, so he settles for a non-committal grunt that’s halfway between agreement and indifference. Ali seems to understand, because he gives him another tiny smile before dropping his own bag on the ground with a dull thud and locking up the van. He leans against the bumper and closes his eyes, letting out a tired sigh. The moonlight illuminates the planes of his face, setting off the exquisite cheek bones and making his inky-black hair shine. Mustafa Ali, Elias reflects, is _gorgeous_. Frustratingly cheerful, an insufferable do-gooder, but _beautiful_. It would take an idiot not to see that, and Elias considers himself a reasonably smart man.

Pretty boys were his weakness, though he’d managed to keep his bisexuality under wraps until now. Not that it had been hard; after all, there was no shortage of beautiful women in Orlando. He allows himself a moment to shamelessly ogle, and is surprised when Ali, eyes still closed, speaks to him again.

“Not exactly my finest hour, was it?”

Elias blames the time of night. He blames the whisky warming his belly. He blames the stupid crush on Bayley that landed him on this ridiculous escapade. He blames everything and anything that can possibly explain what he does next, which is to open his mouth and ask, “wanna talk about it, sport?”

“I’m supposed to help people, not make things worse.”

“It’s a little early to tell if this worked.”

“Drew’s passed out in an alcoholic stupor after violently puking for a second time tonight, I think it’s fair to say I made things worse.”

Elias shrugs. “He drank that booze himself.”

“I drove the car there.”

“If you hadn’t, he still would have gotten hammered. Gulak’s a stubborn idiot; he would have found a way.” He pauses, turning something over in his mind. “Wait, the _second_ time?”

“Lost his dinner after his match with Tony. I think the guilt was too much for him to handle.”

“Yikes.”

“Found him curled around the toilet in locker room.”

“So you decided it was the perfect time to play hero?”

“It usually works out a lot better than this.”

The February air is starting to bite through the warmth from the alcohol, and Elias, wearing only a light hoodie over his usual undershirt and scarf combo, shivers involuntarily and then hisses in pain as the movement jostles his injured ribs. Ali is up and moving in an instant.

“You must be freezing. Come on, let’s get you inside,” he says, grabbing both his bag and Elias’s and reaching for the guitar case as well. Elias lets out a low growl and dodges out of his grasp, eyes stormy.

“Woah, woah, calm down. You’re injured, you shouldn’t be lifting things.”

“No one touches my guitar.”

“Okay. Hands off the guitar. Got it.” Ali starts walking towards the hotel, and Elias follows, cursing himself for engaging in the conversation rather than taking his bags and fleeing. He’s almost grateful for the lightened load, but he suspects now that Ali has been reminded of his injury, he’s about to be subjected to fussing.

Elias _hates_ fussing.

He’s also not thrilled that it’s now almost three in the morning, and he’s going to have to figure out some kind of accommodation. Normally Elias roomed with whoever corporate gave him, no questions asked. He could sleep pretty much anywhere, including sofas or camp beds in hotel rooms, the back seats of rental cars (particularly handy for getting sexiled), or even on occasion a bench in the arena, if it was closer to the bus station then the hotel on a night before a day off. Because of MMC he’d been assigned to share with Rusev, but the Bulgarian had swiftly informed him (in no uncertain terms) that his wife would be taking Elias’s place. Bayley, now free of Lana and saint that she was, had instantly offered to take him in. But Bálor was here too, taking advantage of the rare opportunity to spend time with Zayn, and there was nothing he wanted less in this world then to awkwardly third wheel Bayley and her Adonis of a boyfriend. He’d driven down with them this morning and that had been more than enough for him to endure. In a way, he was almost glad they lost tonight; hopefully a little space would do the trick to rid him of this ill-advised infatuation.

He found himself telling all of this to Ali, after the kindly woman at the check-in desk broke the news that there were no rooms left.

“What do you mean, you’ll sleep in the car?” Ali had asked, incredulous, when Elias mumbled something about borrowing the keys for the night, and Elias had been forced to explain the situation. He’d skirted the issue of his feelings for his tag partner as much as possible, but when Ali’s confused expression changed to one of sympathy he suspected he’d managed to give himself away regardless.

“You can crash with me. I owe you that much, at least.”

He normally would have argued the point, but frankly, he didn’t fancy his odds this time. Which was why he now found himself in Ali’s room, surveying it warily. It wasn’t cramped, per say, but there certainly wasn’t any wasted space.

And _of course_ , there was only one fucking bed.

Ali tosses his duffle on the sole arm chair and starts rifling through his suitcase, pulling out sweatpants and a crewneck. He begins to strip off his ring gear, and Elias knows it would probably be polite to look away, but the tipsy part of his brain is dying to know what Ali looks like shirtless, and tonight the tipsy part wins.

It’s a good view. A _really_ good view. The guy is ripped. Not Bálor ripped, where just looking at him is enough to knock your self-esteem down three pegs, but every angle and curve of his chest is perfectly sculpted and defined. He’s pushing his luck, staring this long, and he’s about to get caught.

“You sizing me up, Samson?” Ali quips, raising an eyebrow. He starts pulling on the sweater and the rational portion of Elias’s brain regains control.

“Just good tactics. One day you might eat a carb and move up to my division.”

“I’m keeping _halal_ in America. All I eat is carbs.”

Elias doesn’t have a good comeback for that. He turns away and starts rifling through his own duffle, searching for anything that could be remotely classified as sleepwear. Normally he’d just sleep in his jeans, but he senses tonight that could trigger even more fussing. Finding nothing suitable in his bag, the only option left is his undershirt and boxers. It’s far too chilly for them, really, but there’s no way any of Ali’s clothing would fit him even if he did have something spare, and right now he’d rather not go through the song and dance of being offered. He’s sobering up, the dulled ache of his ribs slowly becoming a steady throb of pain. All he wants to do is sleep. He ducks into the bathroom to brush his teeth, not even bothering to groom his beard or tie his hair up for the night, and slips off his jeans. Checks that the scarves around his wrists are still wrapped securely; not that they’ll provide any semblance of protection against the cold, but they’ll at least give him peace of mind. He takes a critical look at his boxers, wishing they were slightly looser but judging them to be reasonably clean.

When he emerges, Ali’s already under the covers. He cocks his head to one side and asks, “Aren’t you freezing?”

“M’fine.”

“If you say so…”

“I’m fine.”

Ali shrugs, thrusts a glass of water towards him. “Here. Drink,” he orders, and Elias glares at him but complies.

“You’ll thank me when you don’t wake up with a hangover tomorrow.”

Elias says nothing. He pulls back the covers and gets into the bed, accidentally brushing Ali’s arm with his own in the process.

“You _are_ freezing!”

“It’s fi-” Elias begins, but he’s cut off by a gasp of pain as Ali moves closer and bumps right into his ribs.

Ali retreats immediately, taking his body heat with him. “Shit, Elias, I’m sorry, I forgot about-”

“ ** _Shut up_** ,” Elias barks, and immediately regrets it. It’s not Ali’s fault that Elias is such a grump. He takes a deep breath and turns towards Ali, who looks at him like a kicked puppy.

“Sorry. Just… quit your fussing, okay? Getting on my nerves.” It comes out rougher then intended, but it’s still an apology.

Ali nods, biting his lip like he wants to ask something else but can’t.

“Painkillers would be good, if you’ve got them.”

Ali’s face brightens again, and he springs out of the bed to rummage once more though his suitcase, returning quickly with several bottles and more water. Elias picks a brand at random and downs two capsules, draining the last of the water in one long gulp. Ali stows everything away and gets back into the bed, carefully keeping as far to his side as possible. For some reason, Elias feels a bit disappointed.

He also feels cold. Very cold. He thought things would be fine once he got under the blanket, but the whisky glow has well and truly worn off now and the cheap hotel duvet is doing little good. It’ll be a while yet before the meds kick in, and the chill is only adding to his overall discomfort. He shivers, and the movement sends another shock of pain through his chest. It’s no good. He can’t sleep like this.

“Mustafa?”

“Mm?”

“Move closer.” Ordering instead of asking makes it easier. Less intimate. “ _Gently_ , this time,” he adds, and he can hear a soft chuckle from the other man. Mustafa doesn’t seem to mind; he’s already in motion, carefully shifting over until his chest is flush with Elias’s right shoulder, one arm resting lightly across Elias’s collarbone.

He hadn’t meant _that_ close, but he can’t bring himself to object as warmth begins slowly seeping back into his bones. This close he can smell Mustafa’s hair, a warm mix of spices and citrus, and it’s intoxicating in the best way. If there was a shred of professionalism left to maintain tonight, it’s likely evaporating along with the chill.

It occurs to him, suddenly, that if this was anyone else, they’d have fucked by now. Injured ribs be damned. That doesn’t mean he wants to fuck _Mustafa Ali_ , just he’s never had someone laying this close to him and it _not_ be sexual. He’s normally a lot more… prickly.

Wait.

 _Is this sexual_?

No. It can’t be. Insisting he share his room, the compassion over his unrequited feelings for Bayley, the cuddling for warmth, these are things that coming from anyone else would be a Times Square billboard advertisement for a crush. But from Mustafa, they felt normal, _natural_ even. Nicknames like “The Heart of 205Live” aren’t given, they’re earned. Brief as his contact with the cruiserweights might be, even a loner like Elias couldn’t help but know of the other man’s reputation. Everything that had happened tonight only confirmed the mythos.

“Comfy?” Mustafa asks, and Elias nods without thinking. Mustafa lets out a soft laugh, so soft Elias almost thinks he imagined it, because a few seconds later Mustafa’s asleep, leaving Elias alone with his thoughts.

Intrusive, uncomfortable thoughts. Thoughts of dark, glossy hair, and kind eyes. Not those belonging to his unavailable (former) tag partner, but the man lying beside him, his steady breaths soft against Elias’s scalp, his embrace gentle even in sleep.

Elias avoids do-gooder types like the plague. They always want to improve him, to fix him, but Elias isn’t _broken_. He knows who he is, and in general, he _likes_ who he is. So eventually they realize he’ll never be what they want him to be, and it all ends in tears. Mostly theirs. And yet for all his avoidance, who has he fallen hardest for since he came to WWE? Kairi. Velveteen. Bayley. Dreamers and optimists, the lot of them, and he’d tamped down his feelings every time. There was a moment back there where he really though the Bayley infatuation might get the better of him, but tonight he can say with confidence he’s almost over it.

 _Over it because you’ve moving on to an even more ridiculous crush_ his brain screams at him, but he shoves the thought aside, thoroughly done with thinking for the night. Mustafa is on a different roster, probably straight, and cuddling him for completely professional reasons. There’s no point getting attached.

 _So why are you thinking of him as Mustafa now?_ his brain argues, and Elias can’t help but let out a soft grunt of frustration. He should have just slept in the fucking car.

“Would have froze to death,” he growls, out loud, to remind his brain exactly who’s in charge here. _Shut up and enjoy it_ , he adds silently, _it’s the closest thing to action we’ve had all month._ He squirms a little, trying to get comfortable; he hates sleeping on his back, it’s probably the worst thing about his current injury. The movement wakes Mustafa, who readjusts effortlessly and mumbles another faint “comfy?” before immediately falling back to sleep.

“Yeah,” Elias whispers, to no one in particular. “Comfy.”

It’s not a word he’s ever used to describe any aspect of his life. But his last thought before sleep claims him is maybe, just _maybe_ , he’d like to start.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a small epilogue to this fic, but it's going to be posted as a separate work and linked as a series because its rating is going to be higher and there's going to be some potentially triggering content.


End file.
